


Pretty Girls With Unpretty Hearts

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never talk about what it is that makes her so angry. They rarely talk at all, really. Gendry has no illusions of what this is between them. This is no fairy tale, nor a storybook romance or a song. It's an escape. A reckoning. A way to themselves after so long at the mercy of others. To be true, he cares for her, and he knows she is just as fond of him. But that is not what brings Sansa Stark to his forge with her tongue like a dagger and her passion as her armor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Girls With Unpretty Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: Angry sex up against the wall of his forge.

They never talk about what it is that makes her so angry. They rarely talk at all, really. Gendry has no illusions of what this is between them. This is no fairy tale, nor a storybook romance or a song. It's an escape. A reckoning. A way to themselves after so long at the mercy of others. To be true, he cares for her, and he knows she is just as fond of him. But that is not what brings Sansa Stark to his forge with her tongue like a dagger and her passion as her armor. She marks him with blunt white teeth, bruises him with the press of her heels, burns him with the fire of her cunt, a fire that's so like his forge it feels like coming home.

He thinks he understands. The anger is to channel the sadness. Violence is to fight back the loss. Gendry understands loss as well as anyone. He understands her particular loss a little better than most. 

He would not have thought a lady like her would care so little at the soot and smut that coats everything in his forge. It streaks dark on her milk-pale skin, leaving behind the story of his touch, his handprints large and dark on the nip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the sleek curves of her breasts. It fascinates him, rouses a possessive fire he never knew he had to see her teats framed with the sooty evidence of his hands, so he does it again and again, circling them, kneading them, covering them while leaving her nipples bare to peek through at the webbing of his thumbs. He squeezes hard -- harder than he ever would think or want to, if he didn't already know that's what she wants -- and revels in her whimpering gasps. Nothing so fine has ever been even a little bit his. 

She has a knack for coming to him at the worst times. Gendry's lost more than one blade for leaving it to sit too long in the coals, let more than a few horses go temporarily unshod after having to scrap the shoes that cooled before he finished shaping them. There's no turning her away though. Not when he wants her anger as much as she needs to give it. 

"Now," she says, her nails a stinging rake down his shoulder blades, her hair wild and so alive with static that it clings to everything, to the dirty wall behind her, to her cheeks and chin, to his arms as he braces them on either side of her ribcage and fucks into her, hard, like a man possessed. " _Now_ "

Gendry isn't sure what it is she wants. He tastes the metallic tang of blood when she bites his lower lip.

"Harder," she demands. "You rutting bastard, _harder_."

He can't. No matter that it's what she wants, there's only so much Gendry can allow himself with a lady. He catches her up against him, his hands sinking into the sweet yield of her arse, and staggers to a bench so he can sit with her in his lap. So he can hold her.

"No," she says when his arms come up around her, encircling her in a protective cage. The way he's always wanted to. The way he wishes he could have done with her sister. Arya would have hated it, probably. She would have struggled much the way Sansa does now. "Fuck you," Sansa pants, still rocking her hips on his cock for all that she's trying to fight his arms away. She twists her face away when he would kiss her, instead sinking her teeth hard into his bicep, hard enough that Gendry shouts and bucks up into her so violently he nearly bounces her onto the floor.

"Fuck me," she begs. She's sobbing now, her slender body shaking with it. "Please, fuck me, Gendry." Her hands scrabble at her shoulders, she pounds at him with ineffectual fists. 

"Sansa," he gasps, on the brink of spilling, trying to lift her hips off his. "I shouldn't-"

"No!" she cries out, only sinking down on him harder. 

"San-"

"Come inside me. Please! Come on, come on. Give me a bastard, you bastard, _do it_." She's almost crooning at him now, the sweetness of her tone at odds with the harsh vulgarity of her words. It sends him over the edge and he spills inside her so long and hard, he feels as if he might turn inside out.

Her nails are still sunk into his shoulders, her body still as tense as a drawn bowstring. Firmly, he pulls her arms down and behind her, keeping her wrists manacled together in one of his hands even when she struggles to push him away, to keep him from doing what he thinks she knows he plans to do. But in this one thing, he'll have his way. Her body jerks when he sets his free hand low on her belly and finds the sensitive knot of nerves with his thumb. Instantly, the tension goes out of her arms, but he keeps her wrists held tight at the small of her back as he deftly, ruthlessly, brings her to her own peak.

She wilts against him like a flower, her cheek pillowed on his shoulder, her head turned away. They breathe together for a while, her arms still held behind her back, his softening cock still inside her. It's almost tender. Gendry knows it won't last.

They dress in silence, Sansa turned away from him, suddenly seeming less like an avenging goddess and more like a sad little girl. Gendry wants to take her up in his arms. He wants to tell her not to come back. He doesn't know what he wants. But then, she doesn't seem to either. For a brief moment, she glances at him over her shoulder, her face drawn and sad. Then she turns and walks away from him, leaving him to his forge and his thoughts. Leaving him as she always does, without a backwards glance.

She has more in common with her sister than she thinks.


End file.
